


To Be or Not To Be (awake)

by LadySlytherin



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Choices, F/M, M/M, Mindfuck, Stiles doesn't know what's real, until he does
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-19
Updated: 2018-06-19
Packaged: 2019-05-25 12:10:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,156
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14976899
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadySlytherin/pseuds/LadySlytherin
Summary: Five times Stiles wanted to wake up...and one times he decided to stay asleep.Or...When you can't figure out what's real, how do you decide if you're dreaming or not?Or...Stiles is given a choice, between what he had and what he's always wanted. What he chooses is...unexpected.





	To Be or Not To Be (awake)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Firebull](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Firebull/gifts).



> For the Tumblr Prompt: _“Rise and shine, sweet thing.” + Voiles_
> 
> Goddammit, Ori…I could’ve sworn I asked for normal prompts this time! But, apparently, I’m actually really fond of you because not only did I write you another freakin’ Voiles prompt…it’s also over 5K words long. OTL Oh, and it’s my very first ever 5+1 fic. So there’s that.
> 
> This fic is as different from my other two Voiles fics as they are from each other. I keep trying different ways to do it, each time I play with the ship. This on was...interesting, lol.
> 
> ~ Sly

_“Rise and shine, little fawn.”_

The words filtered into Stiles’ consciousness; dripping in slow and sweet and thick, like honey or molasses. The voice was one he knew, as well as he knew his own. He blinked open his eyes and smiled, because she was sitting on his bed, her hand lightly on his arm, grinning at him. Her golden eyes were dancing with laughter and her long, dark hair was pulled up in a messy ponytail. He felt warmth blossoming in his chest; felt love rushing through him in overwhelming waves. This...this was _everything,_ though he wasn’t sure _why._

“There you are, sleepyhead.” She teased, reaching out and tapping his nose with one finger, the way she’d done for as long as Stiles could remember. “Happy birthday, my little Mischief.”

Something in Stiles’ chest twisted painfully. _Mischief._ He hadn’t heard that nickname in...god, in _years._ Not since he’d started going by _Stiles_ after...after... _after what?_

“My...birthday?” Stiles asked, suddenly unsure. Something felt... _off._ Wasn’t it fall? Late October or early November, at the latest? It wasn’t _April;_ it couldn't be.

“Mhmmm. Did you forget, sweetie?” She rumpled his hair, still smiling sweetly. “I called the school and told them you wouldn’t be in. And I’ve got breakfast ready downstairs. Chocolate chip pancakes, with whipped cream...all from scratch, of course. Get dressed and come down quickly, okay? Your dad is waiting.”

Stiles nodded, watching as his mom stood and walked towards the door. As she smiled over her shoulder at him before closing his bedroom door, Stiles saw flickers of...of _something._ Like memories of dreams he couldn't quite hold on to.

_A tombstone, with the name Claudia Stilinski on it, and his dad on his knees in the dirt, crying like his heart was broken._

_His mom, in a hospital gown, hair stringy and unkempt, face pale and drawn, screaming about Stiles and demons and murder._

_Himself, struggling to breathe, as though there were no air in the world, because his mom had been his best friend and she was **gone.**_

_Years of empty rooms, and a smiling face missing from every photograph, and the empty ache inside him where his mom was supposed to be._

“This is wrong.” Stiles murmured, his chest tight with the knowledge. “She’s _dead._ She’s _been_ dead. This is...this is _wrong._ I don’t...am I dreaming?”

Stiles heard her voice again, calling him down to breakfast, and everything in him longed to go to her. To hug her. To hear her voice, just as he remembered it. To see her face, smiling and healthy. To supplant his memories of life without her with...with whatever _this_ was. But it was wrong, and Stiles couldn't do it, no matter how much the alternative hurt. He curled up on his bed, dragging the comforter over his body and the pillow over his head. He closed his eyes as tight as he could, and willed himself to _wake up._ Because this had to be a dream and he couldn't take it; _he couldn't._

“Wake up.” He whispered to himself, tears spilling from tightly closed eyes. “Wake up, Stiles. Come on, wake up. Wake up, _wakeupwakeupwakeup...”_

~*~*~*~

_“Rise and shine, kiddo.”_

Stiles blinked open his eyes at the sound of his dad’s voice, mind fuzzy. He’d been dreaming about... _about..._

He sighed, supposing it didn’t matter. It was gone now. “Hey, Daddy-o.” Stiles yawned, still feeling groggy and a bit out-of-sorts. “What’s up?”

“I called the school; told them you won’t be in today.” His dad said, and Stiles got a strange sense of deja vu. “I took the next few days off work, too. Figured we’d head up to the lake; go fishing. Have some father-son time for your birthday.”

“The...lake?” Stiles frowned, mind struggling to piece things together. “Lake... _Beacon_ Lake?”

“What?” His dad gave him a funny look. “What in the world made you think of that place, kiddo? I haven’t thought about _anything_ in Beacon County in...god, _years._ I didn’t think you had, either.”

“Years.” Stiles murmured, confusing swirling through the fog of his brain; his memories. “We...we don’t live in Beacon Hills anymore.”

“Not since you were ten.” Noah agreed. “After your mom...well, I figured a fresh start was the best thing for the both of us. So I sold the house, gave my notice, and we moved to Minnesota. You kept in touch with Scott for a year or so, but the distance...well, anyway. It’s been years since then. _So._ Fishing?”

“Uh, yeah. Sure.” Stiles nodded slowly, then asked numbly. “But like...you’re sure you can take a few days off? I mean, don’t they need you?”

Noah shrugged. “The most exciting thing that happens in this town is Mrs. Humphrey’s cat wandering off, or a few Mischief Night pranks. I think the deputies can handle things for a couple of days. Come on; get dressed. We’ll grab something to eat on the way up to the lake.”

“M’kay.” Stiles agreed softly. His dad left the room, and Stiles struggled to remember.

He remembered the _For Sale_ sign on the lawn of his childhood home. Tearful goodbyes with a wheezing Scott. His first day at his new school. The panic attacks tapering off the longer he was away from a house full of memories of his mom. His dad’s drinking slowing down, then stopping altogether. How the phone calls to Scott got less and less frequent as time went on. Making new friends. Making first line in lacrosse. Being popular. Dating a pretty girl named Jessie.

But...

_He remembered practicing for lacrosse with Scott, who wheezed and sucked an inhaler and looked **much** older than ten._

_He remembered Scott making first line, and then becoming co-captain with Jackson Whittemore._

_He remembered Allison Argent, with her dark curls and dimpled smile, and how much Scott loved her despite all of the reasons he shouldn’t._

_He remembered Lydia Martin, in a shimmery silver-pink Homecoming dress. He remembered her covered in blood and dirt, and Peter Hale standing over her with claws and glowing red eyes and a mouthful of fangs._

_He remembered Jackson as a kanima, then as a werewolf. He remembered being paralyzed. Holding Derek Hale up in a pool for two hours. Being beaten by a geriatric hunter; by Allison’s grandfather._

_He remembered Boyd, and Erica, and Isaac...and the alpha pack...and the Darach. He remembered Cora nearly dying, and his father nearly dying, and himself **actually** dying, if only temporarily._

_He remembered..._

...everything.

“No.” Stiles groaned, flopping backwards on the bed, because he was apparently still asleep. And the longer he thought about it, the more he felt like he’d already _tried_ to wake up. And he _hated_ the whole _dream-within-a-dream_ thing; it was _such_ bullshit.

“Nope.” Stiles decided, dragging his pillow over his face and screaming into it for a minute in frustration. “Not doing it, nope. Waking up now. Having none of this shit, thanks very much.”

~*~*~*~

_“Rise and shine, darling.”_

Stiles blearily opened one eye, peering around the pillow he was face-planted in at the purple-and-cream bedroom he’d been sleeping in for...oh, two years now, he figured. Ever since _she_ had moved in with him.

And she... _she_ was sitting astride his lower back, leaning down to whisper in his ear. “I’m so glad we took off work today, to celebrate.” Her teeth closed lightly around the upper curve of his ear, even as her hand slid into view, a sparkling diamond engagement ring on the third finger. “I love you, Stiles.”

“Love you, too, Lyds.” Stiles said around a yawn.

He turned to smile sleepily over his shoulder at the strawberry blonde goddess still perched on his back, taking in her sleep-rumpled hair and the simple pink cotton nightgown she was wearing. It was such a privilege - an honor, really - to see her like that. No makeup, no neatly styled hair or precisely chosen outfit...just _Lydia,_ the way she only was with _him._ The way only _he_ got to see her, without shields or barriers or armor.

He twisted his body under her, until he was on his back. His arms curled around her, yanking her down even as he rolled again, until her soft form was beneath him on the bed. She giggled, a little breathless. “Well, good morning, _fiance.”_

“Good morning, _future wife.”_ He murmured back, leaning down to kiss her. Her lips were soft, and she was warm and pliant beneath him. Her arms went around his neck as she let him deepen the kiss.

_He couldn't breathe; his chest was aching as he sucked in more air...more air...moreairmoreairmoreair...but it was never enough. He couldn't...the locker room was empty around him, echoing his too-loud breathing back into his ears, and his vision was going blurry, and his hands and face were tingly and numb. And then Lydia’s warm hands were on his cheeks, her soft lips pressed to his own, and he stopped. Stopped breathing. Stopped thinking. Stopped panicking. Lydia was kissing him. Lydia had **never**...Lydia **would** never...Lydia...Lydia loved...she..._

Stiles blinked and pulled back, brow furrowed as he tried to remember... _anything._

When had he and Lydia started dating? When...when had he...how _old_ were they? Had he...had he gone to college, or...? Lydia had mentioned jobs. _Where did they work?_ Stiles wasn’t even sure where the bedroom they were in was located. What city, or state, or...

“What’s wrong?” Lydia asked, her voice soft and soothing. And Stiles...Stiles remembered clipped vowels and sharp consonants and a brisk tone. Lydia _never_ spoke like she was now; not to _him,_ anyway.

“I...can’t remember.”

“Can’t remember what?” She asked, fingers dancing lightly over the nape of Stiles’ neck before carding gently through his hair.

“Anything.” Stiles admitted, and he felt panic clawing at his throat. “I don’t...I can’t...”

“Shhh.” Lydia soothed, her voice low and her fingers still gentle against his scalp. “It’s alright. I’ll tell you whatever you want to know. Everything is fine, Stiles. Everything is perfect. We’re engaged. We’re in love. We’re together. It’s going to be okay.”

Stiles jerked himself backwards, away from Lydia - from her warmth, and her touch, and the temptation she presented. “It’s not real.” He muttered, curling his arms around the top of his head and burying his face in his knees. “It’s not _real._ None of this is real. I can’t...it’s _not...”_

“It can be.” Lydia’s voice washed over him, her hand resting lightly on the small of his back. “Come back to me, Stiles. _Stay_ with me. You love me, don’t you?”

Stiles let out a wild laugh, hysteria clinging to his throat and drenching the words he spoke next. “Do I love you? I’ve loved you most of my life. But you’re not _you._ You’re not _real._ None of this is _real_ and I just...I want to _WAKE UP!”_

~*~*~*~

_“Wake up, baby.”_

Stiles mumbled something incoherent and pressed his face further into the mattress. He felt...strange. Tense, and anxious, and uncertain. He wasn’t sure _why,_ but he _did._ Something...something was _wrong._ His brain was whirling like mad, a thousand-and-one tabs open as usual, but all of those tabs were trying to figure out the same thing. It was like a riddle or a puzzle or a brain teaser and he couldn't quite solve it; not yet. Was missing some of the pieces, or forgetting them, or looking at it the wrong way, maybe. He just...he knew there was something _off._

Lips brushed along the inside of his shoulder blade and he startled a little. A low, rich chuckle sounded behind him and a stubbled cheek rubbed against the curve of his shoulder and throat before a husky voice growled directly into his ear. “Get up and get dressed, lazy, before I pick you up and _carry you_ to the car wrapped in this blanket like a human burrito.”

Stiles mouth was moving almost without his permission, the retort coming as though it were something he said every day. “So carry me then, Sourwolf. Save me some walking.”

Derek laughed in his ear, then dragged too-sharp teeth against the vulnerable spot where Stiles’ pulse was fluttering in his throat. Stiles felt his whole body shudder, something heated trickling through his blood. “Or I could just stay here with you.”

“Won’t hear _me_ complaining.” Stiles managed hoarsely, which earned him another laugh.

_‘I don’t think I’ve ever heard him laugh this much.’_

The thought came unbidden and Stiles frowned, because that wasn’t true, was it? Derek laughed all the time. He was sweet, and loving, and affectionate...and he seemed to find Stiles’ sarcasm and snark _hilarious._ Didn’t he?

_Derek was scowling, heavy brows furrowed. Stiles figured it was the most common expression seen on the werewolf’s face. It wasn’t surprising, given everything the man had lost, but sometimes Stiles wondered what his smile must look like. Not even Cora’s return had been able to convince Derek to start smiling properly. Stiles doubted anything ever would._

“Hey, baby...what’s with the serious face?” Derek leaned in and nipped at the tip of Stiles’ nose teasingly. When Stiles just shrugged, unable to explain the way he was feeling - the contradictory memories his brain was sifting through - Derek hummed thoughtfully.

“Alright, then.” Derek got off the bed, adding. “Seriously though, get up or we’re going to be late. You know how my mother gets if we’re not on time.”

“Almost as bad as Laura.” Stiles laughed, shaking his head to clear the dysphoria of the moment; the sensation that something was inherently wrong with what he was saying. “Alright, alright. I’m getting up.”

He pushed to sitting, watching with a smile as Derek walked out of their bedroom. He tried to remember the moment he’d fallen in love with the older man; the moment they had become something _more._ Derek had been one of his father’s deputies for _years,_ and Stiles...Stiles had looked up to him. Had had a crush on him, of course, that wasn’t strange. And he...he had...he had figured out werewolves, because he’d kept showing up places he shouldn’t have been, thanks to a handy police scanner, and...and Derek had been _furious._ Had only seen Stiles as a child who was putting himself in danger.

So Stiles had learned how to protect himself. Had begged Talia to allow him to be trained. And when he’d shown a hint of magical skill, the alpha had handed him over to her Emissary. And still, Derek hadn’t seen Stiles. Not really; not the way Stiles wanted him to. But then he’d gone away to college, and his first summer back he...well, he wouldn’t say he’d grown into himself, per se, but he’d been _less child_ than before. And Derek...Derek had looked at him and, for the first time, he’d _seen_ him.

 _That,_ as one would say, _was that._

But Stiles was cursing suddenly as those tabs in his brain fed him other information; things he didn’t remember until he _did._ Things he _couldn't_ remember because they weren’t true; hadn’t happened. He _knew_ what had happened. But...but he _did_ remember them. It was tangled up, and coming in bits and pieces, like it was being filtered through a fog, but Stiles _did_ remember.

He remembered...

_Scott, and stumbling through the woods looking for an inhaler, and...and the grumpy, scowling Derek Hale who told them they were trespassing. And Stiles told Scott who it was; reminded him of the fire that had killed nearly all of the Hales._

_Remembered Derek’s face when he was accused of killing Laura; of killing the only family he’d had for six years and who Stiles would learn later had been the man’s alpha, too._

_Remembered Peter Hale, ravaged by flame and smoke and madness, his scarred face finally healing but his broken mind not quite able to. Not yet, anyway. Remembered the monstrous form he took as an alpha, and the pain in Derek’s eyes when he had to put him down._

_Remembered Derek making betas - misfits and outcasts and those in pain, who needed pack maybe more than Derek did - and remembered Derek losing them. Remembered Derek carrying Erica’s broken body; remembered Derek’s anguish after being forced to kill Boyd; remembered Derek pushing away Isaac so he wouldn’t be forced to hurt **him,** too._

_Remembered Cora nearly dying and Derek giving up his alpha spark to save her because she was damned near all he had left - a dying baby sister and a resurrected uncle he wasn’t sure he could trust._

_Remembered Derek going away to Brazil with Cora...and..._

Stiles rubbed at his temples, trying to figure out what the _hell_ was going on. He had to be...to be, what? Dreaming, maybe? You could have a fake past in a dream. Could be older or younger than you were supposed to be, and not find that weird at all. You could remember things that had never happened, and remember things that _had,_ and have to sort it out. You could even _know_ you were dreaming. Stiles had looked it up. _Lucid Dreaming._ That’s what it was called. And Stiles...Stiles knew how to check.

He looked down at his hands and - starting with the left pinky - began to count his fingers. _One, two, three, four, five..._ His eyes jumped to his right thumb, still counting. _Six...seven...ei-_

~*~*~*~

Stiles sat up with a gasp, his whole body trembling, a cold sweat soaking his skin. Strong arms curled around his waist and a low voice rumbled in his ear. “Bad dream, darling?”

“I...I...” Stiles stammered, his heart racing in his chest. He couldn't _remember._ “I don’t know. I mean, I guess it must have been, right?”

“Mmmm.” A nose nuzzled the spot behind his ear as a strong body curled around his back. “You’re safe, darling boy. You know that. I’d never let anything hurt you.”

“I know.” Stiles whispered into the darkness, listening to the steady heartbeat of the man holding him. He glanced at the clock on the far wall of the shadowed room. _3am._ “Ugh, it’s too early to be awake.”

A low, dark chuckle sounded in his ear and strong fingers slipped beneath the blankets to stroke across the skin low on Stiles’ belly. “Is it? I’d say it’s the _perfect_ hour to be awake, provided certain... _activities_ are happening.”

“Shut up, oh my god.” Stiles snorted around a laugh, elbowing the man behind him lightly. “You’re incorrigible, Peter.”

“Mmmm, but you love me that way.” Peter purred in his ear and Stiles had to admit that he was right.

Stiles sighed and leaned back into the older man’s embrace. “I feel like the dream was less _scary_ and more...I don’t even know. Just... _wrong,_ somehow.”

Peter nuzzled his throat, humming thoughtfully. “Does it matter now, darling?”

“S’pose not.”

Stiles turned in Peter’s arms, nudging the man onto his back at the same time. In just a few seconds, he was curled up against Peter’s side, his head resting on Peter’s chest. Peter was rumbling soothingly at him, in the way Stiles had learned werewolves had and which he’d _also_ learned to _never_ call purring, on pain of death. He wasn’t sure _why_ most of the werewolves he knew took offense to the term, but whatever.

He closed his eyes and listened to Peter’s heartbeat, and the ticking of the clock on the far side of the room, and the quiet sounds from the street below Peter’s apartment.

“Do you ever regret it?” Stiles asked softly, because it was something he’d wondered about on more than one occasion.

“Biting you?” Peter asked, amusement lacing his voice. “Or dating you?”

“Either. Both.” Stiles lifted his head a little, letting his eyes flare blue as he studied the older man’s face. A few seconds later, Peter’s eyes flared red in response, but Stiles didn’t mind. Peter hadn’t scared him in a while. “I mean, it’s not like this has been _easy...”_

Peter sighed, pulling Stiles back down to his chest, arms securely around the teen’s waist. “No, it hasn’t. And I am consistently annoyed by the fact that I can only have you on nights your father works as he disapproves _so strongly,_ and nevermind all I’ve done to keep you safe and well.” He pressed a kiss to Stiles’ soft hair and added. “But no, my darling boy. I don’t regret it. Not at all. You’ve been perfect, right from the start.”

_Stiles remembered the searing pain in his wrist as the fanged monstrosity that had chased him down in the woods clamped that drooling mouth around it, and how he’d cursed himself for going looking for a body in the first place, and alone to boot. Remembered his awe the next morning when the mark was gone; healed as though it had never happened. Remembered his increased senses; the speed and strength; the sudden agility and grace._

_Remembered Peter calling to him; the pull that made him sneak out of his house and follow Peter wherever the alpha led._

_Remembered how proud Peter had been of Stiles, for taking to being a wolf so well._

_Remembered the anger and pain on Peter’s face and in his voice when he told Stiles who they were killing and why; the justice they were doling out; the crimes they were punishing._

_Remembered flesh rending under his claws; remembered the coppery taste of blood in his mouth; remembered Peter kissing him after they’d killed together for the first time._

_Remembered the pain on Derek’s face when Kate Argent appeared, and proceeded to take malicious glee in torturing the young man she’d so badly abused before. Remembered, too, the satisfaction he had felt when Peter had ripped out Kate Argent’s throat at last._

_Remembered Peter gentling afterwards; remembered the months of slow healing as Peter accepted that it was finally over and all those who were guilty had been punished. Remembered Peter’s remorse over having accidentally killed Laura. Remembered his joy when Cora was restored to them. Remembered every moment of being with his alpha, right up to this one._

And in just a few short months, Stiles would graduate high school and move in with Peter officially. The wreckage of the Hale house had been cleared away and the construction on the new house was nearly done. They were going to be a pack again, truly. Derek and Cora were eagerly awaiting move-in day as well, and Peter had tracked down a long-lost daughter - Malia - who’d hopefully be moving in as well. It was good. Better than good, even. It was more than Stiles had ever hoped for.

Stiles let his eyes close, mind poking a bit restlessly at the dream he couldn't _quite_ remember.

_His mother, waking him up - not real. His father, waking him up - not real. Lydia waking him up - not real. Derek waking him up - not real. Waking up beside Peter..._

Suddenly Stiles jerked away from Peter, falling off the bed as he flailed in his panic. “I’m not awake.”

Peter raised a sardonic brow. “I beg to differ.”

“No. _No.”_ Stiles insisted, shaking his head frantically. “I’m not awake. I’m _not._ I keep...I keep trying to wake up and I _can’t_ and I don’t...what’s _happening,_ oh my god...”

Stiles breath was rushing in and out of his lungs frantically; too fast, too loud, too _everything_ but somehow still not enough air. As his vision went grey around the edges, and Peter watched dispassionately from the bed, Stiles wondered if this would _ever_ end, or if he’d be trapped in an endless cycle of dreams for the rest of his life.

~*~*~*~

“I’m _really_ starting to get annoyed.”

Stiles blinked rapidly, wondering what the _fuck_ kind of nightmare he’d slipped into this time. He was face-to-face with...well, with _himself._ Except...except it wasn’t _exactly_ him. The thing - _the whatever it was_ \- had Stiles’ face, but there were changes; minute differences. The eyes were set a little closer together, in a face that was a bit narrower overall. The eyebrows were thinner, and the cheekbones higher. It was almost like a funhouse mirror; like the faintest bit of distortion until he couldn't really be sure if he was looking at himself or not.

“Who the fuck are you?” Stiles managed to rasp out, edging backwards across the floor where he’d been sitting in a graceless sort of sprawl, away from the _thing_ that was borrowing _his face._

“That’s a complicated question.” The creature admitted, a dark smile curving those full lips upwards. “And the short answer is that, for the moment anyway, I’m _you._ But I’m sure you _actually_ meant to ask what you should be calling me; addressing me as. The answer to _that_ question is far simpler. _Void.”_

Stiles swallowed hard, his throat clicking loudly in the vast, empty space around them. “Void.” He repeated, and the creature’s head inclined in agreement. _Void._

Nervously, Stiles looked around. The space was _huge._ Almost like some sort of empty parking garage, with a white floor and white walls - distant as they were from him - and a white ceiling. It was open, and vast, and empty. Or nearly so. A little ways away from Stiles was a stump that the teen was _pretty sure_ was the Nemeton, though he wasn’t quite close enough for proper confirmation of that fact. He supposed it _could be_ some other, very large tree stump. It just...wasn’t likely.

Dragging his eyes back to Void, Stiles asked weakly. “What’s happening? Why are you doing this to me?”

“Doing _this?”_ Void asked, and his words were tight with impatience; with annoyance; with frustration. “I assume by _this_ you mean the ever-changing landscape of this lovely corner of your mind. And I wouldn’t _have_ to keep changing it, if you would just _stop. Breaking. Through.”_

Stiles blinked, confused and uncertain. “What?”

Void huffed in annoyance, sinking gracefully down until he was sitting cross-legged on the floor, facing Stiles. He rested his elbows on his knees and steepled his fingers in front of him before resting his chin lightly on top of them. “You should have settled into the first one and _stayed._ But you didn’t. You somehow broke through the barrier of false-memories I supplied and fought your way out of that dreamscape. So I - very considerately, I might add - created you _another._ I assumed that the first hadn’t been sufficiently pleasing, though I’m uncertain _why._ I chose things you wanted, each time. Picked from your thoughts, memories, feelings...sifted through to find the things I believed would be the most pleasing for you.”

Sitting up straighter, Void flicked his fingers in annoyance, eyes narrowed at Stiles. “But none of it was good enough to hold you. This restless mind of yours just won’t _settle_ into any of the worlds I’m creating for you. So I thought we’d have a little chat. You can tell me what you want - _whatever_ you want - and I’ll supply it. Then, you will _stay,_ like a good boy.”

Stiles swallowed again, though it did little to combat the dryness in his mouth. He glanced around again, then asked weakly. “Where are we?”

“The same place we’ve been this whole time.” Void rolled his eyes. “In your mind. Trust me when I say, you’ll be much happier _in here._ Assuming you stop fighting me every step of the way, that is. I _could_ just leave you here, in this room, but I was trying to be _nice._ Accommodating, even.”

“I want to wake up.” Stiles managed, though his voice wavered a little on the words. “I don’t want some stupid dream, no matter how prettily it’s wrapped up. I want _my life.”_

Void tsked softly, eyes going a little soft even as his mouth pursed into a sympathetic moue. “Oh, Stiles. I don’t think you understand what’s been happening out there. Your body - with me at the controls, of course - has gone on something of a murderous rampage. There was a bomb at the station that killed several deputies. Coach Finstock was hit with an arrow. You took out more than a few of the hospital’s staff. You stabbed Scott with a very large sword. It’s been a busy few days, let me tell you.”

“N-no...” Stiles was shaking; could feel his heart thundering in his chest. Tears were blurring his vision. “No, I _wouldn’t._ I...”

“Shhh. No need to get so worked up.” Void’s long fingers carded through Stiles’ hair and he was ashamed to admit that the touch was soothing.

Stiles cringed away, but more because he felt he _should_ than because he actually _wanted_ to. _“Don’t.”_

Void sighed. “Honestly, Stiles. I’m not trying to cause you undue pain. You’re simply a means to an end. A pawn, if you will, in the chess game I’m playing out against another of my kind. If you’re well-behaved, I might even be persuaded to return your body to you when I’m done. But in the meantime, I’d like to keep you tucked away someplace comfortable. So you don’t unintentionally wind up exposed to any of the... _unpleasantness_ that I’m causing.”

“Why do you even _care_ if I’m comfortable?” Because Stiles had about a million questions, but that one seemed like the most pressing.

“I’m a fair creature, Stiles. And you’ve done nothing to harm or offend me.” Void’s fingers tucked under Stiles’ chin and tipped his face up, and Stiles found himself staring into eyes so much _darker_ than his own. “I need to borrow you for just a _little_ longer. I’m nearly done. But I need you out of my way, not distracting me with your flailing and panic and such. _So._ What movie shall I play for you? What stage would you like me to set? I can send you back into one of the ones you’ve seen, or create something altogether new. It’s your choice.”

“Are you going to kill more people?” Stiles whispered shakily.

Void nodded slowly. “At least one, yes. Possibly more, if it becomes necessary.” Void’s fingers shifted, tracing the line of Stiles’ jaw before his warm palm curled along Stiles’ cheek, the touch gentle. “You’re such a fragile thing, Stiles. So very _sweet._ Let me protect you from this.”

Stiles nodded slowly. “Do I...do I just tell you what I want, then, or...?”

Void’s lips curled up at the corners. “Just think it. I’ll do the rest.”

Stiles took a deep breath, thinking of what he wanted. What would do best to occupy his time until he could wake up again? Locking eyes with Void, he suddenly knew what he wanted. He closed his eyes and thought it, as hard as he could.

~*~*~*~

_“Rise and shine, sweet thing.”_

**Author's Note:**

> Finally got around to transferring this one from tumblr.
> 
> Let me know what ya'll think in the comments!
> 
> ~ Sly


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